


not even duct tape & safety pins

by fogsrollingin



Series: Sam Whumpchester 🎃 Whumptober 2020 [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beards (Facial Hair), Caring Bobby Singer, Caring Dean Winchester, Comforting Dean Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean's clothed tho, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s06e11 Appointment in Samarra, Facial Shaving, Feral Sam Winchester, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hugs, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Naked Sam Winchester, Nonsexual Nudity, Nudity, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Naked Cuddling, Season/Series 06, Traumatized Sam Winchester, but not, gencest, post-episode: s06e11Appointment in Samarra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fogsrollingin/pseuds/fogsrollingin
Summary: The minute Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, mind and spirit combined to manifest as something barely human. Feral.Death vanished, Dean struggled to hold a screaming, newly re-souled Sam down on the cot, and ever since he's been praying for his little brother to come back to him.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Sam Whumpchester 🎃 Whumptober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947565
Comments: 75
Kudos: 149
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has a bit of a sad ending but I'm marking it as incomplete because I want Sam to recover more than he does (and there's lots to think about/explore in this divergence imo haha). I just can't write it with whumptober prompts in mind after this chapter I don't think, so I'll come back to this after October 👍
> 
> Anyway, next entry for Whumptober! Prompts filled are No 24. "You’re not making any sense" 😵 and No 18. "Paranoia" 👀
> 
> [Tumblr link](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/post/632886573699088385/title-not-even-duct-tape-safety-pins-author)
> 
> [Fanfiction.net link](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13730417)

Sam used to know how easy it was to break zip-ties.

Not now.

Dean discovered this fact while gently experimenting with Sam; he was long past the sentimental aspects of reuniting with his brother.

He focused on the here and now a lot more, if not for practicality than for the sake of his sanity. He studied Sam now, carefully tested him sometimes as he dwelt in the basement panic room.

It had been six weeks since Sam's ravaged soul slipped back into his body by Death, his mind and spirit combining to manifest as something barely human. Feral. Six weeks. Bobby and Dean had been diligently tracking Sam's "recovery" trying to convince themselves it wasn't devastating to witness their graphed plateau lasting longer and longer.

Today Dean figured he might as well see if some hunter's tricks could jog Sam's memories. So, a harmless experiment, the zip-ties.

Sam was always naked, unable or unwilling to clothe himself. He was always warm though. Dean made sure of that. He and Bobby monitored the thermostat religiously. It was harder to keep him clean. Sam gnashed his teeth and growled threateningly but at least he never attacked when Dean cornered him with warm wet towels to wipe off the sweat, grit and grime Sam managed to get on his skin rolling around the floors, stalking along the walls, toppling old furniture. Sure, Sam might fritz into a panic as Dean approached, screaming and terrified, but he never hit or kicked and Dean would rub him down, his ears ringing by the end of it.

Dean tried to outlast his brother's screams whenever he came near so many times. Tried to stay there through it until Sam's throat would go dry, until his vocal chords would seize up, his muscles would relax and his eyes might dull with lassitude. Dean would still be there, soft words and gentle touches and maybe it'd cut a revelation through Sam's mind that he could trust Dean when his guard was down.

But it never happened.

Sammy’s unholy shrieks never stopped until Dean would back away, shaky, the sound echoing in his head. Each time he tried, Dean would last longer than he had before but never longer than Sam could hold out, his little brother's tireless yowls a relentless barrage of mindless alarm and panic. And then every time without fail, when Dean retreated, Sam would instantly go quiet and prowl, wary unblinking eyes staying fixed on him.

It was a tactic, Dean had realized.

Depending on his mood, this knowledge made Dean either furious or on the brink of despair. It was a tactic that worked so well on him. Every time. The desperate, piercing vocals of fear and terror from Sam were never going to be something Dean could ignore.

Today Sam had screeched and shook as predicted while Dean cornered him and put the zip-tie around his bony wrists. When he stepped away, Sam calmed. Dean felt guilty for the dark amusement he felt watching Sam's exaggerated movements looking down, squinting, an aggressive wriggling of his hands trying to part them at the wrist, then the full realization dawning that he was bound; Dean had bound him.

Dean wasn't so amused when Sam looked back up at him, his face ugly with hatred and fury.

Dean never seen his little brother with that look. It was pure and unhinged, a demon's mien, and it stole his breath away.

The look vanished then though, enraged roaring and screaming took its place. Sam ran around and knocked things over and clearly had no recollection how to simply swing his arms down with his elbows tucked to split the stupid thing. He was behaving like an animal caught and trapped and trying to escape with unthinking panic.

Dean didn't remove the ties. He couldn't; he wouldn't bring the sharp pliers near Sam until he calmed down.

Dean and Bobby were worried about Sam near sharp utensils and wouldn't allow it even when they were around and watchful. They just didn't want to risk hurting Sam (or Sam hurting himself) in any way. They knew if he did, Sam wouldn't understand; he might see blood and feel pain and think it was torture, and whatever trust gained between the three of them (and Dean and Bobby had to believe there was _some_ ) could be lost.

Sharp objects certainly included razors, and Sam's modest beard stood testament to their concerns. And now, regrettably, so was a zip-tie that Sam couldn't break on his own.

Dean had to leave the room as Sam was really getting underway. His body was a wrecking ball in a tornado when he got like this, crashing through nearly everything in the panic room. Dean swung the heavy door shut, closing watery eyes and sniffing as he slotted the metal viewer open. He opened his eyes to watch, make sure Sammy didn't hurt himself. He also grabbed the pliers off a shelf to the side of the door outside and pocketed them.

Sam raged on, wrists still bound.

Six weeks. In all that time neither Bobby nor Dean had been able to find it in their hearts to bind Sam down - to the cot, for instance, or in a straitjacket. They'd been loathe to even keep him locked in the panic room but they quickly realized leaving him free to the whole house served as a kind of sensory overload for him. He'd freak out over nothing they could discern and there were too many exits to the house - including windows - where a naked Sammy could bolt. And one afternoon just days after the re-souling, that's exactly what happened. Sam had been found shivering, naked on a stack of pallets in the alley behind a Sioux Falls post office. Bobby and Dean had driven like lightning to get there as soon as they heard the dispatch chatter but two deputies were already near the post office and made it to the scene first. Sam snapped and snarled at them when they came too close. They were at a loss of what to do about him when the Impala swerved into the alley, the two gruff men launching out to take over. Bobby had handled the two deputies as Dean had thrown a blanket over Sam, coaxed him into the Impala.

Shaken and reeling, they had taken Sam down to the panic room and spent hours with him there, patching up his cuts from the window glass he'd shattered when he'd jumped through it, guilty they had to keep him down there but knowing it was the only way to make sure this incident wouldn't be repeated. They did the room up as nice as possible. Power-washed it, got a big box mattress. Soft white sheets. A thick, cushy pillow. Plastic water bottles littered the area too. Dean and Bobby were on a constant cycle of bringing full ones down and the empties up.

Sam seemed completely indifferent about the relocation. Then they noticed a few improvements in his habits which simmered hope. He was using the bed, for example, and where before if Dean forgot to take him into the bathroom he wouldn't be able to make it in time but now Sam got up and used the toilet on his own. That was a big, big win.

So maybe the boundaries of the panic room were a good thing. But bindings had been out of the question. No cuffs, no straitjacket. They couldn't do that to him after what he'd suffered in the cage for eons, after having had his very soul shredded to ribbons by the literal devil. And they noticed that Sam never hurt them and didn't really hurt himself during his tirades so it wasn't actually necessary safety-wise.

They also never drugged him, although Bobby was starting to come around to the idea and Dean wouldn't be too difficult to persuade if things kept going the way they were. Sam needed to calm down sometimes.

But maybe these flimsy zip-ties, the first form of restraint Dean had used on his traumatized brother - but only because he thought Sam would handle them better, get out of them quick - would tucker him out. Maybe he'd shriek and snarl and jump, run, somersault and whatever other acrobatics he could try to reach an exhaustion point that'd get his guard down. Maybe far enough down Dean could catch a glimpse of... him, of Sammy. If he was still in there.

Dean's eyes pricked, his nose ran. It was this grief mingled with paralyzing terror that Sam was gone forever, his immortal soul so permanently scarred and altered there was nothing left of what Dean knew of it.

Dean blinked away tears, steadied his breath, and watched his brother wear himself out. He ended up in a heaving, sweaty heap lying in the corner, whimpering and writhing around, eyes fixed on the white plastic around his wrists in front of him. Despite the giant overhead propellers that served as ventilation, the air down there was still musty, stale, dry. Sam gulped, his breath hitching painfully. He continued to stare at his bindings, twitching and rocking his body on the floor in a mix between anxiety and what Dean figured to be self-soothing repetition.

Dean opened the door then, immediately going to the floor once he stepped inside. Sam didn't growl as much when Dean would do that.

He army-crawled to his brother. Sam shook and pressed deeper into the cement wall where it met the floor. His eyes were alert slits of suspicion as Dean closed the distance.

Sweat broke out over Dean's brow as he crept closer without much of a reaction from Sam. This was a huge first right now. The only other times Dean had made it this close to his brother, Sam was always wild and panicked and Dean was usually trying to restrain him. Sam hadn't been this calm near him since the re-souling.

Dean blanked out his mind, loosened the grip of fear that held him. But he knew any moment, this quiet between them could break apart, fly away off the rails before Dean could even think to do something with it. This was progress. This was magic.

_Don't let go, Sam._

Dean reminded himself to breathe.

Sam's hands were bound by flimsy plastic in front of him as he lay on his side, huffing petulantly, his damp-from-sweat hair tangled and splayed out everywhere, beard straggly, lips chapped, but he was maintaining eye contact. His eyes were so clear, so much his little brother that it hurt deep in Dean's chest. Murky green, turquoise, patches of hazel, flecks of gold in brown, all fixed on him as though he were a stranger. Dean yearned to reach out and press the pads of his fingers to the side of Sam's face, smooth his hair, and just keep at it until Sam closed his eyes. Dean was so desperate for just that tiniest, simplest lesson of trust they might be able to experience.

Without taking his eyes off him and before he even knew what he was doing, Dean lifted a hand. Sam jerked back, shaking, looking between Dean and his hand like they were separate entities, one unpredictable and the other a snake uncoiling, rising to strike. Dean could see the countdown to panic so quickly he just went for the closest contact point between them and ended up petting Sam's arm.

It was awkward, maybe even comical if this wasn't such a desperate bid to build trust with a little brother who felt like the embodiment of the word 'trauma' right now. There was no equivalent in the human experience to the time Sam spent in hell with Lucifer. Dean knew this and in his darkest musings he wondered if trying to coax out any semblance of his Sammy was just added trauma. Hadn't he been through enough? Shouldn't Dean just let him rest, give him the necessities of life and otherwise leave the poor man to his own devices?

Dean's gut and heart always rebelled at that direction of thought. So he kept dragging his fingers gently along Sam's skin. Below the elbow, little strokes, barely there, and Sam had let out a yelp of shock and fear at first but he quieted into low breathy whimpers when he realized there was no pain. He stared at Dean's hand, eyes laser focused. He kept his whole body tense, strung like a bow and Dean realized he was doing the same.

Dean forced himself to relax. He gradually turned on his stomach, he let his legs stretch out, all while keeping a gentle watchful gaze on his brother, keeping his two fingers petting Sam's arm in an unbroken, slow rhythm.

After an interminable amount of time doing nothing else, Dean inwardly celebrated when he saw Sam start to take after him in relaxing. The steady strokes were calming, every sweet touch reinforcing Dean's presence as calm, as harmless.

\---

There was a demon. It was lying down in front of Sam, petting him after having bound his wrists, and Sam didn't know its name but it was pathetic. It was always coming to him in this new hell, this round metal tube full of garbage. The demon seemed to be his keeper for the moment. Where had Lucifer gone? And what was this thing trying to do, crawling on the floor to him - trick him? Did it think he was that stupid?

The face was nice though, Sam thought detachedly. It was the first unmarred face he'd seen in ages. Another trick, no doubt, but a pleasant one to enjoy for just a moment. Same thing when the creature started touching him, stroking his arm with feather-light pressure, its fingers gentle, eyes wide open, hellish murky pits of... feelings that Sam couldn't place right now but he knew they existed out there somewhere, somewhere he was sure he couldn't touch, somewhere impossible. His heart twinged, his breath got shallow at the feeling of it, the feeling he couldn’t touch.

Sam discovered then that the demon was fast. It moved, cut the cord that bound his wrists so quickly Sam that barely saw the flash of the sharp metal that did it.

Sam made to launch up and scream this demon away again but then the touch came back, quick as anything on his arms and then down to his hands. Sam watched, eyes wide and following every moment of the demon's gentle, simple caresses as though any moment a knife would materialize and slice pain down him just as soft and pretty and elegant.

When it never came, when the demon finally just got up and left, Sam was starting to think the demon must be sick or infirm. There was something deeply wrong with it.

Looking at the door after it, Sam didn't understand the salty water on his cheeks. He rubbed the wet off until his skin was dry but his face still hurt. His body was numb as always. The demon's touches burned though. They haunted him.

\---

"Sounds like progress," Bobby concluded after Dean had filled him in. He was leaning against one of his bookshelves. "So what're you being sulky for?"

Dean bit his lip, staring at nothing as he perched on a stack of books against the wall. He clicked his tongue. "Think something might be wrong with his eyes, maybe."

"Why's that?"

Dean shrugged. "He still doesn't recognize me."

Bobby sighed. After a healthy silence honoring Dean's disappointment, he finally spoke. "People think we see with our eyes. And sure, if we lose our eyeballs, we won't see. But there's another way to disrupt eyesight and every other sense God gave ya."

Dean thought a moment before nodding with understanding. Bobby continued. "Psychological trauma can mess with what you see, hear, smell, taste..."

Dean clenched his jaw and wiped his face with his hands. "Yeah."

“Makes you wonder how much of reality Sam’s actually perceiving right now.”

"And what he remembers," Bobby added significantly. That Sam might not, might _never_ remember Dean went unsaid but they were both thinking it.

Dean shook his head clear. "No. Doesn't matter. He can make new memories of me," he said confidently. But his eyes glistened. Bobby broke out a second bottle of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please kudos or comment if you can spare the time 💛🤗 ~ Alex


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the back end of this next chapter, the Whumptober 2020 prompt filled is #27 Extreme Weather! ⚡☁️👀
> 
> also I changed the rating to 'Mature' even though I don't think there's any archive warnings that apply; I just feel like this is kind of intense + mature subject material? Sam's POV in particular. 
> 
> [Tumblr link](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/post/633169066723540992/title-not-even-duct-tape-safety-pins-ch-2)

Sam ate like a horse. Dean hadn't fully understood how jacked Sam had gotten when he'd been soulless and even idly wondered about steroids sometimes but regardless all that bulk needed to be fed. Three hearty meals a day and Sam still acted like he was starving before every one of them. He was so ravenous Dean would sometimes have to pace him, doling out pieces of a meal, encouraging sips of water between gulps. The slower pace had Sam accidentally chomping on Dean's fingers a couple times, some mix between enthusiasm for his next bite and something deeper, more intelligent, sardonic amusement in the slightest glint of his eyes. It made Dean laugh despite everything. It made him think (hope) his brother was still in there somewhere.

Dean used a blanket next. It had worked back at the post office, but then again Sam had been really scared of others at the time. He'd gone with Dean into the Impala easily enough but only distractedly, only to get away from everybody else.

"Guess we'll see," Dean muttered.

Sam was curled up on his bed after breakfast. When Dean came inside, Sam started crying and howling and flitting around the panic room in hysterics. Dean caught him with the blanket and together they went down.

Sam struggled crazily. He was going to tire himself out, catch his breath and build his energy back up, then try kicking or bucking Dean off again. Stubborn as always, it took about an hour of Dean restraining him, talking softly before his wild animal of a little brother was completely drained of energy to get away.

Dean still held Sam tight. He made sure the towel cushioned his face against the hard cold floor, and then they... rested. Just stilled.

Sam swallowed between breaths, staring with eyes fixed on the floor. It was probably a fear response. After fighting proved ineffective, flight was impossible, so freezing and going limp was next on the behavioral menu for Sammy's terror.

Dean muttered soft gibberish to him as he tried not to think back to when they were kids and he would best Sam while they wrestled or sparred. Sam would fight so hard to get out of a firm lock or hold from his far stronger and heavier brother. Dean would laugh evilly and Sam would exhaust himself, eventually relaxing under him. The trust in his brother was so ingrained they both took it for granted.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to have this trip down memory lane but the images poured through unbidden. Sammy's expression the night Dean came to get him at Stanford. The minute he realized it was Dean hovering over him, pinning him. Dean, his big brother, the guy that protected him from the monsters their father hunted since he'd been six months old. Every defense had fallen away and Sam was just his little brother again.

He'd made a face. He'd said _Dean_?!

Dean shook himself from the sob threatening to surface. He wiped his eyes with one hand, kept Sammy down under the blanket with the other. Sam remained still, resigned to enduring whatever Dean was going to do now. It reminded Dean of hell, of the rack, and he couldn't stop another tear. They were so screwed up.

Sam was face down and covered entirely by the blanket. Dean pulled it down past Sam's neck and started petting Sam's hair. He knew Sam had always liked that when they'd been little, still seemed to like it now.

Sam's hair wasn't shiny but it was clean, soft and strong beneath his palm. It'd always been unruly waves if he didn't put a hat on it while it dried. It was like that now. Tangled but healthy. Dean patted Sammy's head without trying to thread his fingers through the mess. Just smoothing his hand along the top should be fine, should bring his brother some comfort like it used to.

Then the kid started trembling.

***

When the demon had grabbed him, Sam was out of his mind, instinct telling him what came next and how maybe if he kicked up a fuss he could stave things off.

Instead, the towel remained between them, the demon wasn't forcing itself between his legs.

Whispers slipped through to him, soft and gentle and rhythmic. Sam ignored them and fought until he couldn't anymore, and he was certain that had been exactly what the demon had wanted. It had gotten Sam so limp that he couldn't fight whatever it had in store for him. That must be how the demon liked it.

The creature began to stroke his hair. It relaxed and leaned against his prone body.

And that was all.

For a long, long time.

Sam closed his eyes and couldn't get his breathing steady as the simple strokes along his scalp kept going. It felt so good and Sam didn't know what was happening. He couldn't stop trembling.

Suddenly he felt his face getting wet again. Frantic, Sam clawed at his eyes to get the liquid off.

As though in reaction, the demon moved them. Sam shrieked through tears - he'd done something wrong. He'd be punished - as the demon gathered Sam up, managing even his unwieldy long limbs, and pressed him against its own shockingly warm body.

It resumed its ministrations on his hair. Sam shut his eyes to focus on it even as his breathing was so rapid in his ears, his body shivering uncontrollably, his face still salty. What was happening?!

Demons weren't warm. They were always cold. Demons never touched him like this.

He couldn't understand how _not_ torture this was. He couldn't make sense of any of it. In the sea of terrified confusion, Sam clung to the warmth. He hadn't been warm in a very long time.

***

Once Dean made sure Sam wouldn't scrape his own face off just for crying, he allowed himself some measure of hope at the sight of them making tracks down Sam's cheeks and disappearing into his beard.

It was odd how much Dean wanted to give Sam a shave just then, how much he wanted his brother barefaced so he could see every twitch, every tell his little brother had. Also, just... Sam was... he was a man but he was Dean's boy. Dean didn't like the beard.

Besides that, Sam had a long torso, broad shoulders, long limbs, and a big head full of messy hair. When all of it was shivering but pliant in a traumatized daze for Dean to roughly arrange into something comfortable, it was a lot of Sam to deal with. And thank goodness Dean had gotten over the naked thing.

It'd been hours after the re-souling that Dean and Bobby had realized not only did Sam want to stay starkers but also had no sense of occasion for defecation. Naked Sam was one thing, naked Sam legitimately needing adult diapers was another altogether and they immediately understood how important and urgent it was to get Sam on board the toilet train before another accident. It was a relief that Sam was such a quick study on this one thing in particular, but teaching Sam to poop on the can by letting him studiously watch you poop, and then having everyone look into the bowl together making happy sounds at your poop was probably as mortifying as anything could get for Dean. Dealing with just a naked Sam was a cinch after that.

"The things I'll do for you," Dean chuckled lowly. He adjusted them where he was sitting up against the wall, Sam cradled across his legs. Sam's upper body was curled in and slumped sideways against Dean, head lying on Dean's shoulder. Dean held him as Sam started to make some vague wheezing noises that didn't quite sound distressed. Dean, out of breath from moving them around, finally hitched Sam's legs higher to go over his thigh and massaged Sam's head as he leaned his own against the wall for a breather.

Sam whimpered. Dean leaned them sideways for a second to grab the towel he'd used to wrangle Sam to the floor and covered his brother up with it. Then he went back to stroking Sam's hair and mindlessly whispering, saying such comforting things he imagined were so foreign to Sam that he couldn't really comprehend. As such, Dean lost his filter and closed his eyes.

"Come on, Sam. You're safe. I got you outta there. I got you. I'm not letting go, not ever again, okay? You're mine now... always. Just like always. I take care 'a you. It's gonna be okay. We're gonna get through this, Sammy," and on and on his comforting litany went.

Sam's eyes were glossy as he stared at one point on the gray concrete wall past them, unseeing. Dean rocked them. Tears fell and they shook together and it felt like everything was cracking open and bleeding with no guarantee anything would heal at all.

\---###

The demon eventually de-tangled itself from Sam and left. It was shorter than him but bulky, strong. Sam had never encountered a demon like this: that strength, warmth, how it was able to withhold pain - either inflicting or experiencing it - for so long. Sam didn't understand. He wanted to question it more, distrust it.

But the more the demon visited, the harder it became.

Then there was another demon that Sam saw less often. It never touched him. It put trash into the room and took trash out. It brought him food and water so he associated these strange but welcome sensations of sated thirst and hunger. It grumbled. It had a similar look in its eyes to his primary demon but not as intense. It didn't talk to him. His primary demon always spoke. Nothing Sam could understand, of course, but it murmured and whispered and shushed, it made soft noises that tugged at something sharp and deep and mystifyingly familiar in Sam. This other demon didn't have that same effect on him, but Sam had concluded that it was still... nice.

Whatever level of hell he'd been sent to, it was the best.

The shuffling grumbling demon that never touched him was in the room now, fiddling with the bucket.

The bucket was rigged with a seat on top where Sam did his business and this demon would pull it off, seal it, and take it out for a few minutes before returning it, its foul contents empty and washed out. Sam always watched when the demon did this, huddled and safe at the other side of the room but transfixed by the sight of the work. Sometimes this demon would notice and it'd make a sound that wasn't angry, its eyes sparkling with something other than malice.

Whenever either of the demons got that look, Sam would squint and scrutinize it, try to figure out what it meant. It was such an alien combination of expressions.

Then they'd get another look, this one more slack and dull. Sam know those. Disappointment. Punishment would be swift.

But with these demons, it never came.

\---***

Thunder cracked directly overhead. Sam jumped and screamed and scraped at the walls. Lucifer was returning. Sam didn't want to go.

A siren filled the air above, echoed down through the big vent. Rainwater was falling into Sam's face and little rivers of it was following the cracks to Sam's bed. Sam wailed and fell onto the soft surface, rolled around it until he fell off onto the cement floor. The tactile feel of it helped him keep the fear at bay but then the sky would light up, the crack so loud and close he was certain it was in his head too. Sam writhed on the floor, clutching his hair and his throat was raw from his terrified inchoate vocalizations.

The door to his chamber opened with a grating screech, and somehow instead of Lucifer both his demons had arrived. It wasn't Lucifer but it was still terrifying because he'd never experienced both of them in the room at the same time. His primary demon ran to him and pressed him down on the floor. Sam screamed and his demon dropped something into his mouth. It was a nasty chalky powder disintegrating on his tongue. He wanted to spit it out but his demon's big hand covered his mouth, then the other demon came around and got him by his shoulders to keep him down.

Sam gurgled and bucked under their holds, tears streamed down his temples as he had no choice but to swallow the disgusting taste they'd forced into him.

After an interminable amount of time, the tension left Sam's body and he went limp. His demon immediately pulled his hand off his mouth which surprised him. He stayed where he was on the floor, fearful to provoke his demon who clearly wanted him there.

He smacked his lips in distaste, the flavor of whatever it was still lingering. He watched as his demons seemed to settle and relax on the floor with him. Gradually, Sam became less and less scared. His heart beat normalized and Sam felt suddenly floaty, detached.

He saw the lightning and heard the thunder and he shook but he could also feel the warmth as his primary demon sidled over to lean against a wall. It reached out and held Sam's hand. Its palm was warm, its skin rough. It was soft in between his knuckles. Sam slid his fingertips around, exploring.

Lucifer was coming, Sam was sure, but somehow Sam wasn't seizing in terror like he normally would. He was just coasting, feathery light. He broke the hold the demon had on his hand and rolled over onto his stomach. He crawled to his demon and slumped down prone on the floor again once he'd come up alongside him.

Moments passed without anything happening. Impatient, Sam looked up at his demon and let out a petulant whine. The demon huffed. It was a sound Sam was familiar with, the dark amusement of demons during torture when he would react unexpectedly. Those moments were few and far between these days, the demons of hell knowing him so intimately after so many sessions together. But Sam still had vague memories of when it happened more frequently. When he and the demons (and Lucifer, of course) plumbed the depths of agony and found the occasional crystal perfect surprise that'd make them... chuckle.

As with everything it seemed (which was starting to get exhausting for Sam), this demon was different. This wasn't torture and the demon's amusement didn't ring dark.

Instead it did what Sam had wanted it to do. It reached over and touched his hair. Sam let out a deep sigh, even tested his boundaries and made some pitchy noises of content that he couldn't ever remember uttering before. His demon seemed to react favorably to that though, touching and pressing Sam's hair and shoulders with more gentle force.

Sam didn't know what would lead a demon to act this way towards anything. If it thought it owned him, Sam shuddered to think what would happen if it met Lucifer, his real owner.

Lightning flashed through the room. Sam noticed the other demon was still with them. It had situated itself in a corner. It had a lantern and Sam studied its face, its expression in the light. When he had first come to this realm of hell, everything was in black and white and these demons had just been wispy black trueforms. A little more solid, a little more humanoid in shape, but nothing like how they appeared to him now. He wondered why they would shapeshift into humans like this, why they would alter the surroundings so he could see a few washed out colors every now and then. It couldn't be for his benefit.

Whatever the reason, they were clearly getting comfortable in their visages because the other demon's expression was so complicated that Sam couldn't interpret it. He could recognize pity and sorrow but there was something else too. It was unwavering and piercing but it didn't hurt, it didn't evoke fear or dread.

Sam gave up and turned back to his primary demon, the one that touched him a lot but it never hurt. He sat up to face it.

It seemed startled but then relaxed. It had a similar look as the other one. It struck Sam for the first time though: the demon's eyes were green, not black. Sam squinted, leaning in and the demon jerked back but then stilled under Sam's scrutiny.

Sam had never seen the color green until now, had he? The lantern beside them was a bright white and the vivid emerald color shined in his demon's sockets, under its lids.

It whispered something. A hiss, some "mm" sounds, ending with "ee." Its eyes glistened even more.

Sam made a face and tilted his head. His demon made that sound pattern a lot with him. Was the demon trying to give him a name? Sam hadn't had a name for decades though. He could barely remember to a time that he had. What were names for, anyway? How did they get used?

Light flashed, thunder boomed and rattled the foundations of hell and Sam didn't even think when he startled with a fearful howl, instinctively huddled up to his demon. He couldn't help it, Lucifer would surely be descending down upon them any moment now so Sam folded himself into the demon's body. He squeezed his eyes and willed himself to believe that this demon was more powerful or more clever, that when Lucifer came for him, it might be able to negotiate to keep him.

It was impossible, Sam was sure, and his body trembled, but he could _make_ himself believe.

Sam pulled his knees up to rest against his demon's ribs and the demon let him. It leaned back for a second and pressed its lips to Sam's forehead, his temple. Sam didn't know what to think so he went back to tucking his face into the warmest part of the demon he'd just discovered, its neck.

Sam considered ripping the demon's delicate flesh there out with his teeth. It was tempting. He wanted to know what the demon would do if he really made it mad because so far this hellspace was only either boring or confusing to him. Which made him love it, but still.

He didn't do it though. The demon was susurrating again and rubbing his back. Lucifer hadn't come to them yet and maybe his demon was doing something to keep the archangel at bay. If that were the case he couldn't distract it. Sam nestled in, wrapping around the demon, trying to convey his gratitude if it was really protecting them. Sam couldn't be sure but the thunder was going away now and the demon was really gripping him like it owned him so maybe it deserved the credit.

Demons never bested Lucifer but as with everything it seemed (which was really getting exhausting for Sam), this demon was different. His demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, how'd this one go? This is pretty harrowing but... did the poo training paragraph make you laugh? 
> 
> Please kudos+comment if you can spare a minute! <333


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> polishing this chapter through tears abt the series finale amirite 😅😭
> 
> if anyone's interested, I am indeed noodling on my own series finale fic. hopefully I can get some of it out by this thursday which is when fandomnatural on reddit is going to be hosting their series finale fic rec thread. I'm looking forward to that.
> 
> here's 3.1k more of feral!sam now 🤗

When they first tried putting clothes on Sam, it was failure after failure. Sam thought they were restraints or a trap or something and he would fight. But Sam was also scared and never effectively hit, kicked, clawed, or bit. He played ferocious but he never landed a blow, never broke the skin. Dean thought of those small dogs in funny videos where they went nuts, spitting and growling even as their owners ran a gentle hand down their faces and necks unscathed. That was Sam but it wasn't funny; Sam didn't actually trust him like the dogs trusted their owners in those videos, he was just terrified of what would happen if he hurt Dean.

Even if Sam was essentially harmless like that it was still a kind of torture for Dean and Bobby just by the horrible noises Sam made. The snarling, the shrieks of panic and especially the pleading whimpers like he was exhausted in agony after having been flayed alive or something… and all just because they were sliding a shirt over his head. Dean felt himself getting angry sometimes; Sam’s insane fear over such innocuous things were so frustrating he wanted to just rattle Sam, order him to snap out of it and just put his damn shirt on for fuck’s sake. Every time Dean felt himself on that edge, Bobby was there to say his name, calm and collected. A nod to the door, a suggestion to take a break and leave the panic room.

Whether Dean was present or not, every time they’d successfully gotten an article of clothing on him, Sam would rip it off in shaky, furious huffs once he was left alone. Next time he’d see them, if he remembered he’d eye Dean or Bobby with this look of betrayal. Apparently they violated him somehow, putting clothes on him. It was darkly funny.

Their attempts to clothe Sam tapered off. Bobby stopped bothering but Dean still tried every once in awhile. One day Sam tore off a t-shirt, shredded it like something out of the hulk.

Dean took it back and sat on the basement stairs outside the panic room holding the tatters in his hands. His brother had loved this shirt.

It wasn't like Sam's attachment to the shirt spoke volumes to who he was or anything though. Who knew if, when Sam came back to him, he'd even still like the shirt. But... it was the option to still have it if he did that _this_ Sam had taken away just now.

That’s when Dean stopped trying to dress his brother. They would save the rest of Sam's wardrobe for when he'd actually want it.

They bounced back from the disappointment with a new development: Sam had grown a love for fabric just out of the dryer. They started noticing after they would replace his bed sheets. Sam would always scuttle away from them whenever they came in with new linens but then they’d leave, and Sam would rush to his mattress, roll around on the nice clean sheets. It was endearing and heart-breaking at the same time.

But that was before, when Sam never went near them if he could manage it. Now that Sam was starting to focus on them, even make touch contact with Dean on a couple rare occasions, Dean considered they might have to revisit the clothes thing.

It was an idle thought he carried with him in addition to the bundle of new sheets in his arms as he made his way down to the panic room.

He entered. Sam took one look at him and ran to what had become 'his' corner, the same corner they'd been in that day Dean had bound him with zip-ties. Sam had started to favor it; he tended to end up there when he was scared or on guard or otherwise stressed.

Dean dropped the bedding down on the cot which they now used as a spare shelf for towels and whatnot and bent down to strip the mattress when he gave Sam a double-take.

His little brother was crouched in the same place just like normal but this time his gaze was intense, unblinking, his body leaning towards Dean almost like he wanted to get closer but didn't dare. But that couldn't be.

Dean left the sheets for the moment and stood slowly as he maintained eye contact with Sam. He pressed his lips together, tilted his head. He didn't know what Sam's behavior here was supposed to mean. Was it fear? Aggression? No, it was a different energy. Sam thrummed with... eagerness? impatience?

Dean stepped forward. Sam stood a little higher, made some aborted movement with his hands. Dean blinked, stunned. Was that- had Sam just been about to reach for him? Voluntarily? (Because the time during the storm a few days ago didn't count. Sam had latched onto him because he'd just been there and Sam had been scared by the lightning strikes. They'd given him a Valium too so he'd been out of it.)

But now Sam was as clear-headed as he normally was and he wasn't being terrorized by extreme weather. He was just facing Dean with these pleading eyes and muscles taut with self-restraint.

Dean took another cautious step and Sam hummed deep in the back of his throat then wrung his hands. He looked up at the giant air turbine above them, the curved walls around them, back at Dean.

"Sammy," Dean murmured, getting close enough to touch and when he slipped an arm around Sam's waist, Sam let out a sorrowful moan and shuffled in, pressing against his brother, hands quaking but nonetheless finding purchase on Dean's shoulders.

It was a weird hug, Dean thought to himself. He tried to be as loose and relaxed and accommodating as possible with Sam, tense, scared, and oh yeah naked, all 6 foot 4 of the man curling into him. The way Sam was so nervous had Dean uncertain whether this was what Sam really wanted. Yet as Dean remained still and calm for Sam to wrap around him, Sam's confidence advanced and his strength caught up. Sam pressed himself tighter and tighter to him and Dean gave the slightest reciprocating touches.

Moments passed.

Dean let out a slow sigh, tried to tamp down on his emotions because this hug was lasting awhile and it was like one of those threads Dean didn’t know he was holding on by getting pulled tighter and tighter. But for all he knew this wasn’t about affection or comfort. It could just be too cold in here or something. An unnerving thought occurred to Dean. If it was warmth Sam was seeking, Sam might discover the heat friction could generate. Dean did not want his naked brother mindlessly rubbing against him, thanks.

So he was grateful Sam remained still as he clung. Just the occasional nuzzle against his neck, his beard scratching skin but Dean could handle it. In return Dean palmed the back of Sam's head. Hugging like this for warmth didn't make sense anyway; he could feel it was warm in here. Dean and Bobby always made sure.

Dean breathed, let his fingertips glide down Sam's spine. Sam shivered and stepped into Dean's space even more. Dean planted his palm at the small of his brother’s back, tried to convey firm reassurance just by touch. Sam kept his chin hooked over his shoulder and they settled.

Dean closed his eyes and let Sam get whatever he needed out of this

After another minute or two, Sam let go of him. He crouched back down again and hesitantly made his way to the bundle of clean sheets Dean had put on the cot.

Sam had never chosen to be so close to him or Bobby when they were changing his bedsheets. Dean knew Sam knew it too because he was eyeing him warily, flinching at every movement back towards the mattress that Dean made.

So they wouldn’t get caught in a feedback loop of stress, Dean decided he’d just ignore Sam. Perhaps that’d show Sam he had nothing to fear by being so close to him while he carried out this small housework task.

It seemed to work. Sam didn’t scuttle away. He just held onto the new bundle of sheets as he sat on the cot and Dean went ahead stripping the bed. Sam pressed his nose and lips against the new blankets for the smell, the soft texture but his bright eyes remained fixed on Dean.

When it was time to put the new ones on, Dean didn’t look at Sam. He kept his back to him and just extended his arm out so Sam could drape the fabric over. Dean suppressed the urge to jump for joy when he felt them land evenly.

He took them from his brother and got back to work putting the fitted sheet on first. Sam was curled up in a ball on the cot now, his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around. He wasn’t shaking or pale with fear though so that was good. It gave Dean time to think a little bit too and he went back to his earlier ruminations about dressing him.

While Dean was elated Sam had gathered the confidence to kind of ask for hugs (and secretly heart warmed this… snuggly Sam was the first rational, coherent thing to surface up in him), Sam was still buck-ass naked 24-7. All unmarred skin, long bones, sharp angles and soft junk just swinging around. Dean really didn't want to admit to having any delicate sensibilities here but damn. It was definitely time to try the clothes thing again.

\---

The same demon kept coming back to him and Sam was starting to figure out what it was like to _like_ something. He'd liked things before, he was pretty sure. It was a distant past, a pinprick of light in an otherwise dark chasm of agony. It was strange for him, feeling feelings when they weren't on his familiar scale of suffering. The demon was tender. It didn't hurt him. When Sam reached for him, he just let him; even touched him back with this alien soft pressure. The demon made Sam's face wet and then sore for it. It whispered delicate deep sounds. A couple in the same pattern, a pattern Sam instinctively liked, might be a name.

Sam didn't understand the demon and he didn't know why there were tears every time but he was able to conclude now: this wasn't torture. This demon, Sam decided, really didn't belong with him, didn't even belong in hell. It was doing torture wrong.

And as he reached these revelations, he felt something take form, an idea and a feeling roiling together into sick conviction.

Lucifer had always told Sam he’d had an insidious trait, a trait that’d damned him to eternal hell in the first place. It was a trait that both Lucifer and Sam were certain had been shattered probably a century or two ago because when Lucifer spoke of it, he said it as though it were in the distant past. And Sam had no memory of feeling or thinking it, much less even remotely likely to act on it.

Until now. Now, Sam looked at this demon, his demon, treating its dungeon of punishment in hell as a practical nursery full of sweet voices and soft textures and gentle touches, and Sam knew he wanted more; Sam finally felt the fire of defiance Lucifer had always said was such a core part of his soul.

Interesting.

Sam didn’t know how to get ready to fight against the legions of hell that’d come for them once they discovered what the demon was doing. He had to put his addled brain back together, start thinking coherently in order to come up with something. In the meantime, he was going to reach out to the demon again. Test its boundaries. Maybe he was wrong and the torture would come as soon as he did something else, something more forward. He had to know.

The heavy metal door opened and as soon as the demon was clear of it, Sam went straight for it, walking forward with a determined stride, hands out, fingers strained. The demon only took one small step back in surprise just as Sam ducked straight into its warmth, pressed their chests together, wrapped around the creature's form. It lost its balance and it gripped Sam's shoulder as it did, and Sam righted the demon and then it was holding him, stroking his skin in a way that made Sam think this demon really did know what it was to like things too, that Sam was one of the things this demon liked as well.

Then it sped up its rubs on his back and lightly pushed him away. Sam wanted to collapse in on him, fall to the floor and stay there forever. This demon was keeping him unharmed for so long he could cry. He clung. The demon pushed again, nudged. Finally Sam stepped back and tilted his head, looking to his demon.

It shuffled and turned and picked a heap of white off the floor, showed Sam the wet, heavy, thick white fabrics it had brought in before Sam had accosted it. He hadn't even noticed, so preoccupied with his plan to touch the demon on his own, to initiate it. But one look at the fabrics draped over the demon's arms and Sam went back to his favorite corner and sat down, ready for them. The white fabrics were always soaked with warm water and the demon would wipe his body down and it felt good so Sam was not afraid. The demon always talked to him during towel time too, and even though Sam didn’t understand he’d come to enjoy the thing’s voice.

Sam liked the suds, the sweet and spicy scents were like nothing he could remember. They didn't taste good though and the demon would wipe the bubbles away from his mouth because Sam tried to taste them every time. He couldn’t believe something that smelled so good could taste so bad. When Sam would lick up some suds despite the demon's efforts to stop him, Sam would make a face, the demon would stop talking and make a rhythmic wheezing sound instead. It touched him more and more kindly when it made that sound, its green eyes (which Sam was still getting used to seeing) were different, brighter, softer, and so Sam came to like the sound.

The demon didn't clean Sam’s head or hair that often but today was one of those days. It spent time on his face too. It chattered on as it ran its fingers through Sam's beard until it was foaming, its voice low and relaxed, and Sam just stared up at it, his curiosity and something else - the something in him that always wanted the demon's warmth or that wheezing sound it'd make, or its green eyes glinting, crinkles at the edges - pressing in on him to understand.

They were done too soon. Sam noticed the demon still had a big white fabric it hadn't used on him only this one wasn't wet. He shivered, nervous about the deviation in ritual but held still anyway as the demon picked it up.

It was lighter-weight than the other towels but a similar soft texture. It wasn’t just a simple panel of cloth either; it had folds and shadows to it. Sam shook and clenched his jaw but managed to stay and endure it as the demon draped it across his back. Sam whined and whimpered as the demon threaded his trembling arms through tunnels of fabric. There was a rope hanging on either side of his waist he hadn’t seen until it was too late. The demon quickly got them and used them to bring the two sides of fabric hanging off him together. Before Sam could rage and rip off the confining thing, the demon pulled him into an embrace, robe and all, into its arms.

Sam screamed for a second, squirmed in the demon’s arms, but then he decided to calm down and see what this was about. Part of the plan to try thinking coherently again but also how soothing the dry warmth of it was, the demon's hold on him always the right pressure. A strong hand cupped his head, rubbed fabric through his damp hair. Sam keened with happiness and tucked into the demon's neck.

This creature was so special, Sam thought. Lucifer had always said he loved Sam, but this demon... this demon liked him in a way he could barely fathom.

\---

So Operation Robe had been a success. Sam was finally clad in 'clothes,' a nice spa-like terry-cloth robe Dean had found while thrifting downtown. It had some threads to it but it was soft and lightweight. Now, Dean thought, they could cuddle until the cows came home if that's what Sam wanted.

Sam snored suddenly as though in support of that plan. Dean huffed a laugh. Sam jostled him. He was snug against Dean on the mattress. Dean had shuffled them over there for a more comfortable place to rest after the towel shower.

Sam sleepily snuffled against the chest pocket of his plaid. Dean liked the feel of terry cloth on Sam, hopefully keeping him warm and comfortable, covering and protecting his body. It went a long way in softening Sam's edges too. It made him easier to hold.

Dean rolled his eyes at his own thoughts. He was his own worst enemy sometimes. Like it wasn't sappy enough to be doing this, he had to rope his thoughts into it too.

So thinking more practically, the robe had been a success. Hopefully Sam would take to it, would decide to wear it more. From there boxers and a t-shirt should be an easy transition.

Dean sighed and wiped his mouth but he kept his arm around Sam, unconsciously pulled him in as he thought about how Sam was so completely oblivious about nudity. He didn't seem to recognize clothes and certainly didn't understand their purpose of protecting skin. Dean filled in the blanks on why: where Sam had been, avoiding pain was impossible; any ideas to avoid pain like with protective clothing were unthinkable.

Dean tightened his hold on Sam again and Sam let out a pitchy whine in his sleep. Dean smiled at the sound of it. He tethered himself in the here and now and let himself drift to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please slap a kudos or comment right down on me, I'd love it so so much (esp bc I could rly use the dopamine hits to help me as I continue to try to process the spn finale hahaha... 😭)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean shaving hell-traumatized!feral!Sam’s beard. That's it, that's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta find that one person in the SPN Kinkmeme on AO3 who prompted an epilation fantasy and tell them this exists now 😂

Dean took a deep breath and let it out slow. He doubted this was a good plan. It was just that Sam's beard was growing in earnest. It was longer than even douchey hipsters wore it. So really if Sam were in his right mind he'd be thanking him. Maybe. Probably not.

He fiddled with the small scissors and the electric trimmer in his hands, closed his eyes, took a breath. He could do this. Sam was better. Dean could keep him calm through it.

He pushed the heavy door open.

Sam was resting on the bed. He wore boxers now. He still liked the robe but to prevent overheating Dean made more of a fuss about underwear when he came in. Eventually Sam left them on even when Dean wasn't there. Dean counted it a huge victory.

At the sounds of his arrival Sam shot up, bushy beard masking his cheeks and jaw but not his glittering eyes, his toothy grin, body language that he was awake and alert and looking to Dean eagerly, nearly restraining himself from accosting him. If he were a dog his tail would wag so much it'd snap and Dean both hated and loved this reception from his brother. It was so brainless which wasn't his Sammy at all, but then again it was so adoring that it never failed to make him smile. Sam’s happiness kindled hope, gave him an unerring sense that from out of Sam’s joy could emerge his sharp intelligence too. It was there to uncover. Dean knew it. They’d get there one day. Not today though.

"Heya Sammy." Dean rasped kindly, a subtle apology underneath as he approached. Sam didn’t make eye contact but he reached for him. Dean stepped into the circle of Sam's arms and knelt on the mattress, let Sam nuzzle into him, let himself duck into Sam's neck for a hug. He had a feeling this would be an ordeal. Soaking up some affection beforehand had merit.

When Dean let Sam cling, the man was a blanket wrapping around him, warming them both to the core. Sam's skin was smooth and dry under Dean's touch as he rubbed Sam's back. In return Sam just hugged him more, made kind of cute chirping noises as they'd settle. The sounds had this prissy tone of approval to it that reminded him of when Sam was younger, sniffy and passive aggressive and so desperate for Dean's attention. Sam mewed like he was uncomfortable and Dean realized Sam was trying to pull free. He let go quickly, never one to force affection, and Sam just adjusted where he was against him, pushed his face into Dean's neck and the embrace felt good but Dean winced as the bristling curls of his brother's beard scraped his own freshly-shaved face. He could hear Sam breathing in his aftershave, probably figuring out the oud scent. It was times like these that Dean felt they were both transported back to childhood a little bit, beards and aftershave aside. Sam held this wonder at the basic things around them and Dean instinctively slipped into patiently letting him observe, examine, understand. Most of all though, Sam was fascinated with Dean. It was another forgotten piece of nostalgia Sam kept reminding him of: Sam loved watching Dean, following him around, and when they were close Sam studied Dean's clothes, his skin. He'd stare at his face and study how it moved. Dean would make faces and stick his tongue out and Sam would give breathy squeals of delight.

Now wasn't the time for that but this was how it was starting to be, and Dean, for all his desperation to get his Sam back, couldn't deny the appeal of how things were going. He wanted progress and a full recovery out of Sam but he was finding he could enjoy the tender moments along the way too.

Dean finally leaned away and grabbed a towel from the cot, draped it over Sam's pillow, then another for the mattress. Dean lightly narrated what he was doing, how he wanted things, and Sam hovered next to him and followed along. He startled a little when Dean put his hands on his shoulders and guided him to lie down but he was easy and pliant.

He began trembling when he reached up for Dean and Dean put his hands down; didn't join him to lie down too. Instead he hitched his hips up on the mattress next to Sam's chest and tried not to loom. It didn't really work. Sam's body kept shaking. It seemed unconscious though because Sam's eyes were as unnervingly bright and trusting as ever. Dean carded his fingers through his hair, made shushing sounds.

"It's okay, Sammy. Maybe you're cold," He thought out loud and got Sam's blanket, pulled it up to cover his lower half up. He shrugged out of his thick wool over-shirt and gave it to Sam too. At first Sam hesitated but then clutched it close. The tremors didn’t stop. Dean pressed his lips together and reconsidered his plan. Sam just gazed up at him as he lay in bed, clutching Dean's shirt, tremulous. If it wasn't for the beard Sam would seem so painfully young.

Dean steeled himself for an objective assessment. The shivers really weren't that bad and Sam’s eyes didn’t have fear in them. He'd keep going.

He set the trimmers on the floor just next to the mattress and kept the small scissors in hand. He turned to his brother. He couldn't see Sam's mouth or lips very well with the beard, just his eyes squinting and tearing up. Dean really missed seeing Sammy's dimples.

Dean held his breath and gently scratched his fingers through the curls of Sam's beard to get him used to touching him there. Sam settled down a little bit. It wasn’t a terrible deviation from the norm; Dean touched Sam's beard every now and then, sometimes to be affectionate but mostly to clean food out of it which was as gross as it sounded.

On the first snip, Sam jolted and keened. Dean shushed him, swept his hands over Sam's face and hair, and kept going. "It doesn't hurt, you can't feel it, Sammy, it's okay," Dean whispered over Sam's low whines. Silent tears rolled past his temples into his hairline. 

Sam stayed where he was and endured, learning slowly that what Dean was doing brought no pain.

Soon there was a pile of hair on the floor by their side. Sam's chest and neck was sweaty with stress but he was still holding it together. Dean had gotten Sam's beard so it was only an inch or so in length. The trimmers were next. Dean suspected this would go a thousand times worse but in for a penny, in for a pound. Also he was pretty sure Sam would discover he preferred being clean-shaven. Add that to the list of reasons Dean was so intent on getting rid of his brother's beard. Yeah.

"Good job, Sammy, you're doing so good," Dean praised, dabbing him with a small towel. Sam grimaced and rose up, reaching for Dean's shoulders while at the same time ducking into his chest. Dean knew he wanted him to stop and give him a hug. Dean huffed but let Sam's tugs lower him down to lie beside him. Sam rolled and curled into Dean, clutching onto him in bed, and Dean let them both have a little breather.

"It's okay. I've gotchya," Dean sighed, rubbing Sam's back. Sam whuffled and shifted against him. 

"We're almost done, Sammy," Dean assured. Dean moved a hand off his brother to the trimmer, sliding it closer. He detached from Sam, ignored his whines as he pushed him back into place against the towels. "Please don't freak out," he murmured ruefully. There was no way Sam wasn't going to flip out.

He took a deep breath and turned the trimmers on. It emitted a harsh buzzing and both brothers were sent into a flurry over it. Sam shouted inchoately and scrambled up like a live wire. Dean caught him around the middle and gently as he could, body-slammed him back onto the mattress where they both bounced. Sam screamed but before he could get up, Dean straddled him so he'd stay down. Sam's hands lashed out batting at him frantically and Dean got his wrists, pulled his arms over his head and held him down. Their faces were closer together now. His little brother's eyes were wide and terrified, fixed between Dean and the trimmer's razor as it softly vibrated where Dean had dropped it on the mattress.

Dean again reconsidered his plan. What if he just stopped with this torment. Even if it was only psychological, it was still upsetting them so much. Sam legitimately thought he was in hell and Dean was about to torture him. One look at Sam and there was no doubt in Dean's mind that's how he was interpreting the situation. Dean swallowed bile, the pit in his stomach roiling.

"It's okay, it's okay, Sammy. It's not bad. It's just a fucking trimmer, baby," Dean whispered desperately. Sam's eyes nearly rolled up in their sockets. "No!" Dean slapped Sam's face. "C'mon, come back to me, stay with me, it's okay." Sam blinked up at him and focused, an improvement, but the shakes doubled. He was petrified.

Dean cursed himself inwardly; he'd known this would happen, damn it. He'd tried to prepare himself, to brace Sam for it, but Sam's reaction was still getting to him.

Sam moaned and cried, squirming under Dean's restraint but there wasn't any real power behind it. Sam was nearly always resigned and limp if Dean actually applied strength. It sickened the eldest brother but at the same time he just wanted to give Sam a shave, for the love of...

It'd be okay.

It was okay, Dean repeated to himself and out loud for Sam too.

Here's what was going to happen. Sam was going to come out of this even more secure in the knowledge that Dean would never hurt him. 

Sam gasped another tearful cry and Dean shushed him. He let go of restraining Sam's arms, instead moved Sam's hands down and pressed Sam them to cross comfortably over his chest. 

Sam searched the mattress and found Dean's overshirt he'd given him before. His hand shot out to grab it, drag it back over to his chest. He nestled his fingers into it and let out these breathy whines and whimpers but the physical tension was diminishing with the item's comfort. Sam wasn't fighting him anymore. With free hands now, Dean leaned in and pet Sam's hair. Sam shook and he gazed up at Dean, eyes wet and rimmed red. 

Dean palmed his brother's face, soft and soothing. Sam responded a little bit, looking up and into Dean's eyes again. "That's it, calm down, just look at me, Sammy, you know I'd never hurt you, I've got you. You're safe. I just wanna shave your beard, man," Dean chuckled wetly and stroked through the prickly scruff along his little brother's jaw. 

Sam calmed further under Dean's ministrations but his eyes continued to beg for mercy. It wrenched Dean's heart to see him like this. Sam was a powerful form, tall, strong, lithe. But his eyes, fascinating patches of green, hazel, golden brown shining from tears held fear, pain. His throat worked as he whimpered and trembled and desperately absorbed Dean's gentle touches and kind words like the last benediction he'd ever get.

"You don't... Don't look like that, Sammy. Nothing bad's gonna happen to you. I promise." Dean pushed Sam's hair back and traced the lines of his brother's brow, nose, cheek, into the now modest beard and left his fingers there, lightly stroking. "It's gonna be okay. You don't even have to trust me right now because I'm gonna show you, Sammy, okay?" Dean thumbed the anxiety lines along Sam's forehead. He gave into impulse and kissed Sam along his hairline. "Okay," Dean swallowed, picked up the trimmers. Sam begged no with a pitchy whine and Dean steeled himself against it. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

Sam wasn't scared so much as sad the odd respite he'd had with these defunct demons was over. They were reprising their roles. Perhaps Lucifer was nearby to pick him up and he had to look as destroyed as he'd been going in.

The buzzsaw was quieter than most. 

His demon's eyes were contrite and Sam didn't know what to do with that. He should thank the thing for giving him the time they'd had together because Sam couldn't remember anything so precious happening to him. He'd remember it for several decades from now if not longer, he was certain. He wished he could say he'd always remember but he knew that wasn't true. Lucifer told him he'd lived a whole life on Earth. He said there were some people he loved who loved him up there and Sam couldn't remember any of them so he knew he'd eventually forget.

He couldn't dwell on it.

His demon pressed warmth against his face with his fingers and then suddenly with his lips and Sam cherished the sensations even as the buzzsaw's drone increased. It was by his ear, then it descended a little further towards his jaw, and finally Sam felt the pressure as his demon pushed it to his face.

Sam's cries were deep and guttural and he gripped the demon's arms to hold onto, to anchor him through the pain. His demon patted him reassuringly then went back to work. Sam felt the buzz bristling through the hair on his face, closer and closer to the skin where it'd rend and peel and soon he'd be suitably skinned like however Lucifer had ordered.

Sam howled his grief but at the same time he made every effort not to move and mess up his demon's work as the buzz moved around again, pressing along his jaw and nearly reaching his skin on more and more patches on his neck, cheeks and chin. Sweat blinded him, chills wracked his body, tears and snot were salty on his lips. His demon spoke to him in lilting lullabies and every once in awhile it would wipe him down with a damp, warm towel. Sam would sputter and without thought reach for the demon, wanting the touches back, how his demon would hold him. Every time the demon gently but firmly pushed him back for more of the buzzing device and Sam would cry harder until he could barely breathe. The buzz wasn't even hurting him yet as far as he could tell. He knew it would eventually though, and that it would be his demon doing it to him, and that was Sam's despair.

The buzzing ended. Sam hiccupped and fell silent too. His demon began fussing with his face, neck and shoulders, brushing pieces of hair on his skin like pinpricks. They fell away under the demon's hands, then the warm towel again. His face felt exposed, he felt the air, but he wasn't in pain. He touched rough, porous skin instead of slick wet muscles of his face. He hadn't been flayed.

Sam looked into his demon's vivid green eyes and the creature smiled, genuine and kind, and its noises were calm and rhythmic. Sam was still trembling, his jaw clacking when his demon brushed its knuckles along his cheek. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the new sensations of skin touching skin there.

The demon whispered the Ssss word with a heavy, urgent tone, then unscrupulously scooped Sam up from the bed and into such a tight hug that even Sam's body got the message it didn't have to shudder anymore, that Sam was getting held again by something that had only ever been tender to him, by something he could trust to touch him without agony.

It kissed him again, this time on the cheek right after he'd stroked his hair several times. Sam's reactions to these things were becoming more and more foreign to him. His eyes burned, he sobbed with relief their time together wasn't over, he wriggled even further into the demon's embrace. The demon was warm, smelled smokey and woodsy like before, its heart beat under his ear. Sam loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Pls kudos + comment if you can spare the time 🤗💛 ~ Alex


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